


Secrets

by Zanchev



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Harry, Cruciatus mentioned, Everyone knows who Harry is except Harry's boyfriend, Gen, Greg is a little bit clueless, Greg-centric, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, also minor mentions of boners, and a lot awesome, non-graphic description of dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 02:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11152578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanchev/pseuds/Zanchev
Summary: Greg Lestrade was happy with his life. He had a good job, a bizarre but solid set of friends and colleagues, and a smoking hot lover. When he is convinced to bring his boyfriend along to a crime scene, Greg finds that things are not exactly as they seem... But hot damn does it all make his lover more attractive.





	Secrets

It was late at night - almost eleven - when Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade's pager began to beep incessantly. The sounds of both his home phone and his mobile were quick to follow, adding the the cacophony of electronics. Greg swore and rolled away from his lover, reaching blindly for the nearest gadget. His partner groaned and pulled a pillow over his head, trying in vain to block out the noise.

 

"Why do you still even _have_ a fucking pager? Those things are older than I am!"

 

"Don't remind me how young you are, please," Greg snarked back, finally managing to stop the frenetic beeping. "I keep one because I need to be on call 24/7 in as many ways as possible. Besides, some of the more senior paper pushers are old school."

 

"No, vinyls and Led Zeppelin are old school. Pagers are _ancient_."

 

Greg laughed, kissed his lover's pouting lips before hauling himself out of bed and hunting down some pants. Bright green eyes followed him as Greg haphazardly threw on a button shirt and tie, not bothering to tuck his shirt into his trousers before tugging on socks and shoes.

 

"How do I look?" Greg held out his arms and grinned. His lover hummed in mock-thoughtfulness.

 

"Recently shagged," was the smug reply.

 

"That'll have to do," Greg span and made for the ensuite. He dragged a comb through his graying hair and glopped toothpaste onto his toothbrush in haste.

 

"Take me with you?"

 

"G’uh?" Greg offered a wordless question around his toothbrush, sticking his head through the door frame to watch his partner curiously. He shifted nervously under the rumpled sheets, before seeming to come to a decision. Greg thought that the glint of determination in those green eyes was possibly the most attractive thing in the world.

 

"I came here tonight to be with you," his lover shrugged, looking hopeful and stubborn all at once. "I don't get nearly enough Greg Time. I want to spend tonight with you, even if it is at some gory crime scene."

 

Greg had to duck back to the sink and spit before responding.

 

"Are you sure? At best it'll be really boring, and at worst it'll be traumatising," Greg moved to the bed and kissed his younger lover. "I don't want you to be upset, Harry."

 

"I'm a big boy, Greg," Harry smiled, looking even more stubborn and - if Greg was honest - a bit sexy. "I can tie my own shoes and everything. Bring on the trauma."

 

"And if someone gets on your case about why such a young looking, unqualified guy is doing at a crime scene?"

 

"I'm sure I can come up with something," Harry grinned in a way that sent shivers down Greg's spine. It was too easy to back down.

 

"All right. Better hustle - we're gone in five."

 

Greg couldn't bring himself to second-guess any decision that made his lover smile like that.

 

**-shhh-**

 

Lights were flashing and sirens blaring when Greg and Harry finally arrived at the scene. Greg's car screeched to a halt and they both leaped from their seats, ducking under the yellow tape in unpracticed synchronisation.

 

Harry fell into an obedient silence, half a step behind and to the right of Greg as the Detective Inspector barked orders and received reports. The officers, analysts and medical staff all ignored Harry as they bustled around what looked like a set from a slasher film.

 

"There you are, sir," Sally Donovan approached the couple as they made their way toward the victims. "We've got four bodies and a survivor. Two of the vics look like they've died of heart attacks - there's no wounds, the bodies just stopped working - but the others are mutilated. One has whip marks and lacerations all over her. Words carved in the back, chest, arms, cheek, and her throat was slit. The other looks like he's been burned from the inside out, and his eyes are... well, gone. Possibility of further torture or rape of all four vics is pending further investigation, but likely."

 

Donovan looked ill, and Greg had to close his eyes and swallow back bile. He hated these sorts of cases - where psychopaths and murderers got loose. Greg glanced to Harry to see how he was taking it, but his young lover looked fine - strong and steadfast as he eyed the bodies with detachment. Greg felt somewhat proud of him.

 

"What about the survivor?" Greg asked, dreading the report. Donovan shifted nervously, and he prepared for the worst.

 

"Actually, that's the baffling bit," she said. "The survivor - a girl, probably about ten or eleven - appears to have no physical wounds like the first two victims. She hasn't stopped shaking since we got here - we've put it down to shock until we get a medical report - and she keeps muttering about monsters and some gibberish no one's been able to understand. We've recorded it, even if it won't be a valid statement."

 

"So the girl is ok? Physically at least?" Greg sighed, relief seeping through his body like the tingle of wine, comforting him. He could feel Harry's hand slip into his and squeeze.

 

"As far as we can tell, yessir," Donovan bowed out to talk to Anderson - likely about prints or conspiracy theories.

 

"Hey sweetheart, how are you holding up?"

 

Greg startled at the soft voice, but smiled gratefully at his calm and collected boyfriend.

 

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Greg teased, moving closer and breathing in Harry's scent, using it to erase the stench of blood. "This is supposed to be my job, after all."

 

"That doesn't mean it gets any easier," Harry cupped Greg's face and kissed him gently, soothingly, sounding and seeming wise beyond his years.

 

"Thank you," Greg took solace in the kiss, the touch, the words, even if he couldn't think of a better response. Harry smiled and turned back to the bodies.

 

"You should go make sure no one is harassing that poor girl. She needs time to grieve and sort out her thoughts before overzealous officers try to force her to relive this," Harry murmured. Greg thought that was a brilliant idea and immediately marched towards the nearby ambulance, lover in tow.

 

"All right, back off everyone!" Greg shouted at the swarm of people around the vehicle, taking comfort in the familiarity of loud voices and barking orders. "Anyone not DIRECTLY involved in keeping this little girl alive leaves NOW or gets fired. Move it!"

 

The crowd reluctantly thinned, until only Greg, Harry, and two paramedics remained. Harry immediately moved to kneel in front of the shock-blanket swaddled child, expression caring and stance earnest. Greg could only stare as his lover transformed into a being of pure compassion and love right before his eyes.

 

"Hello there," even Harry's voice seemed more soothing, more musical. "What's your name, honey?"

 

"I - Ivy. Ivy Jordan." Greg heard the name, muffled by orange blanket. Harry's replying smile was brighter than the sun. Harry’s fingers buried into Ivy’s hair, and he began to run his fingers through it, smile never fading.

 

"Hello, Ivy Jordan,” Harry spoke warmly, and Greg swore a bit of the night chill faded. “My name’s Harry Potter.”

 

“Harry _Potter_?” Ivy’s eyes grew impossibly wide. Greg wasn’t sure what the significance of Harry’s name was, but the way it looked like Harry’s heart was breaking behind the smile still firmly in place made him want to hold his lover close, kiss him until those tears were forgotten. Harry never faltered in stroking Ivy’s hair and wiping away her tears.

 

“Yes, that’s me,” Harry murmured. “I was right then, your parents...?”

 

The way Harry trailed off seemed strange to Greg, but it obviously meant something to the girl, who was nodding vigorously.

 

“‘m half. Dad was pure, mum was muggleborn. They... they got my aunt and Grandad too. They were mum’s side.”

 

Harry nodded solemnly, as if that made perfect sense. Greg wondered how he knew how the handle kids so well - no one had managed to get so much from her, according to Donovan.

 

“Did you get your letter yet?”

 

Greg blinked in confusion and shock. The question was so left of centre, so utterly irrelevant. It seemed to be the right one to ask, though, because the girl lit up in tentative excitement.

 

“Few days ago, I’m so excited!” she beamed, before freezing. “Th... they found it on the table, waved it about a bit, teased me... said it was just good enough to let me go.”

 

Greg perked up, pulling a pen and pad to write down Ivy’s words as Harry coaxed them from her. They didn’t make much sense now, but maybe they could get enough for a lead.

 

Harry, meanwhile, had moved from kneeling in front of Ivy to sitting beside her. He had pulled her half into his lap, continuing his petting and gentle questioning.

 

“Did they touch you? Hurt you?”

 

Greg felt like he was the only one to hear the embers burning beneath the casual question. He shuddered, torn between fear and lust at the never-before-heard promise of justice in his lover’s tone.

 

“Only the... the pain one. And only for a few seconds. They wanted me out of the way, not dead.”

 

“No wonder you’re still shaking, sweetheart.”

 

Greg couldn’t help but freeze. Harry’s words were simple, even joking, but his voice was laced with venom, and his eyes -

 

His eyes were practically glowing with rage.

 

Whatever this ‘pain one’ was, it was enough to condemn the perpetrators. Permanently.

 

Greg almost didn’t want to know what it was, the concept that angered his lover so. Mostly, however, he wanted to know so he could punish the sick bastards that did this properly.

 

“Here, Ivy. This will help with the shaking.”

 

Looking back over, Greg was just in time to see Harry handing Ivy a bar of chocolate. Greg smiled - his lover swore that chocolate fixed everything. Ivy did relax and the shaking did slow as she nibbled at the sweet. She curled into Harry, gazing up at him like he was a superhero or something.

 

And perhaps he was, Greg mused. A hero that swept in past the chaos and pain and saved the little girl with cuddling and chocolate, making her feel safe and loved in a world that had just stolen her family.

 

Whatever the cause of the adoring gaze, Harry seemed content to hold Ivy close and comfort her. He asked questions and listened patiently, nodding like her talk of muggles and pain and ‘Them’ made complete sense. Harry deftly manoeuvred the conversation, ducking and dodging anything that made Ivy uncomfortable and distracting her from the outside world.

 

“Sir?”

 

Greg tore his attention away from Ivy and Harry - who were in a lively debate about the pros and cons of something called a huggle-puff - and gave Donovan his custom ‘You Better Not Be Wasting My Time’ raised eyebrow. Donovan looked maddeningly unrepentant.

 

“He’s here,” she sneered instead, jerking a thumb over her shoulder.

 

Greg swore - of course He would be here. Murders most foul? It was like a neon sign saying _‘Early Christmas, come on down!_ ’.

 

Greg waved Donovan off with cursing and half-hearted emotional manipulation - “I’m in the middle of helping comfort a grieving, recently orphaned child. I’ll get to Him in a minute” - and turned back to Harry. His lover had somehow managed to rock the girl to sleep somewhere between huggle-puffs and Donovan’s Bad News, and was now watching Greg with an expectant half-smile that was decidedly too bitter for Harry’s young face.

 

“She’ll be down for the count for a few hours at least - she’s exhausted - but I want to be there when she wakes up. She’s too vulnerable not to have a familiar face.”

 

Greg nodded his agreement to that. It was a solid plan, though a tad too far into the future for his brain right that moment. Nothing could really exist beyond the present in a case like this.

 

“Right, well I have to go stop this from turning into a multi-serial murder site. We’ll follow the ambulance to the hospital after that, yeah?”

 

Harry nodded, shifting Ivy to rest on the crisp white stretcher in the back of the ambulance and kissing her forehead. He jumped nimbly from the back of the van and turned to the medics.

 

“Take the utmost care of her, you hear me? I want her in a private room, round the clock service and support, utmost discretion. Spare no expense, I will cover it,” Harry ordered firmly. “Best of the best is the only option for this girl, am I understood?”

 

The medics nodded frantically and headed for the cab, ready to take the child to St Bart’s Hospital. Harry rolled his shoulders and offered Greg a tired, but chipper smile.

 

“Where to next, my love?”

 

Greg shook his head fondly, but took Harry’s hand and led the way to where Sherlock Bloody Holmes was causing a ruckus.

 

Again.

 

“It’s impossible, I tell you! These two died of natural causes - heart attacks! There’s no sign of poison, and you can’t die of _fright_!”

 

“You are once again displaying your utter lack of intelligence, Anderson. This is a case of four murders. four, not ‘two-and-the-heart-failure-of-two-more’.”

 

Greg groaned under his breath at the all too usual shouting match between Holmes and Anderson. When would they learn that such arguments solved absolutely nothing?

 

“Someone!” Greg interjected before the argument could come to blows. “Please explain to me how you kill someone without touching, poisoning, wounding or even really _breathing_ on them.”

 

“It’s impossible,” Anderson started. Greg hated himself for silently begging Sherlock to cut him off before he could lecture.

 

“Nothing is impossible when it comes to murder, Anderson,” Sherlock sneered, and Greg had to pinch himself to get rid of the bizarre urge to kiss the bastard. “It is an art form the human race has spent centuries on all but perfecting.”

 

Greg ignored Donovan’s snort of disgust and Anderson’s indignant squawking. Instead he watched John Watson eye the bodies clinically, cataloguing wounds. He saw Harry stare at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, his lover piercing the consulting detective in that soul-piercing way he was so good at.

 

“Hurry up and tell me how They did it,” Greg sighed, rubbing at his eyes. He was exhausted.

 

“‘They’?”

 

Fuck. Greg shook his head. Trust Sherlock to get distracted by that of all things.

 

“The survivor mentioned a ‘They’. It was indicative of more than one criminal as opposed to ambiguous gender.”

 

“No you are not going anywhere near the survivor, Sherlock. Not tonight,” John interrupted Sherlock before he could begin, and Greg was once again struck by the urge to kiss another man. Harry, as if sensing Greg’s sudden inclination for infidelity, tightened his hold on the D.I.’s hand and motioned for Sherlock to continue.

 

The action brought attention to him, but Sherlock was apparently too eager to tear apart the mystery to waste time cross examining Greg’s boyfriend. With an excited half-jiggle, the mad genius was off.

 

“It’s obvious that they were all murdered. Their position, expression, clothing, _everything_ shows that they all died too closely together for coincidence. Besides, they were all fit and healthy, no indication of heart conditions or any condition that could kill so easily and quickly. Clearly they were all wanted dead - the mere existence of a survivor shows that, if ‘They’ wanted it so, the two non-mutilated persons could have lived. Erego, four deliberate acts of murder.”

 

“Yes, great, thank you,” Greg cut in, wanting this night to be _over._ “But how did they do it?”

 

“No idea,” and didn’t Sherlock look positively gleeful at that concept. “Never had one quite so interesting before.”

 

“Oh for God’s sake!” Donovan had apparently had enough. “You’re sick, Holmes. Sick and twisted! What part of this is ‘interesting’? It’s horrible and vile, not some science project!”

 

“Donovan,” Greg tried to head her off, before she got too into her tirade. The look on her face quickly shut him up again.

 

“Don’t you ‘Donovan’ me! Didn’t you hear him? “Murder is an art form”! Sick bastard probably did it himself! He’s wrong in the head, always has been! He should be locked up! He-”

 

“Enough.”

 

The burning embers were back, and Greg shivered again at the sound of Harry’s voice. There was no kindness or censorship for little girls anymore, no soothing melody to the words. Harry was burning, furious, and Greg was _so_ turned on by it.

 

The gathered crowd - Sherlock, Watson, Anderson, Donovan, others that Greg couldn’t be arsed remembering - all stopped and stared as Harry stepped forward. His back was straight, stance relaxed but poised to strike, expression stony and eyes burning with righteous fury.

 

“This is not a playground,” Harry hissed. “This is not the time or place for pulling pigtails or petty insults flung in jealousy or hurt pride. You are not children. You are all adults, working on a crime scene that involves four dead bodies, one traumatised child, and no current leads. I suggest you all drop this ridiculous dick-measuring contest and grow the _fuck_ up, before I lose my temper.”

 

Greg shifted in place, trying to use the furious and chastised expressions of his work colleagues to get rid of his erection. It worked. Slowly.

 

“Just who the hell do you think you are?” Donovan spat, looking livid. Harry gave her a cold look, before pulling out a small leather wallet Greg had never seen before.

 

“General Harry James Potter, special agent and former member of the Black Ops, at your service, Miss Donovan.”

 

Greg’s boner was back full force at the power that oozed from his lover’s every pore. Harry’s smug expression made Greg want to drag him to the car and ravish him, but he settled for standing back and watching his lover rip into his childish coworkers.

 

“Now that I have your attention,” Harry spoke over Donovan’s stuttering apologies, ignoring her completely. “The way you are all acting is deplorable. The only two here with _any_ sense are Dr Watson and D.I. Lestrade. Mr Anderson, Mr Holmes is here for a reason. This is no time for proving who is smarter. Miss Donovan, if you cannot continue this case without bias, leave immediately. Insulting a consultant and accusing him of violent sociopathy and serial murder are the acts of a petty, jealous shrew, not a professional police officer. I hear of you abusing coworkers like this again and I will _personally_ see you removed from Scotland Yard.”

 

Anderson and Donovan fell deathly silent, looking down in shame. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off when Harry span to face him, glaring furiously.

 

“As for you, Mr Holmes. I understand you enjoy the intricacies of your work, but tact is essential, especially on cases such as this. You will make dangerous enemies if you do not _think_ about what you say. You have been callous and rude, utterly insensitive, and most of all _stupid_. Stop messing with the officers and focus on your job - solving the motive and method of this crime.”

 

With Sherlock silenced and thinking, Greg watched as Harry sighed. All the angry energy seeped away, leaving his content and loving partner with him once more. Harry offered Greg a smile before turning to Dr Watson.

 

“Dr Watson, pleasure to meet you. Have you had the chance to closely examine the bodies yet? I have a few theories I’d like confirmed.”

 

And with that Harry was off, seizing control of the crime scene with a powerful grace that bordered on obscene. Anderson and Donovan shuffled quietly back to work, leaving Greg to babysit Sherlock as he muttered to himself.

 

Greg let his eyes follow Harry’s ass as it sashayed away, his lover striding through the crowd like Moses through the Red Sea. Greg hadn’t known Harry was ex-military, hadn’t known he was MI-anything, hadn’t even _guessed_ he was anything but Harry Potter, twenty-four year old bartender and rapidly becoming the love of Greg’s life. The Harry Potter Greg saw tonight was one he hadn’t known existed.

 

But damn if he wasn’t _really_ attractive.

 

**-shhh-**

 

 

“How did you know there was going to be extensive internal nerve and muscle damage on the unmarked victims?”

 

“Lucky guess.”

 

Greg approached Harry and Watson at the end of a seemingly thorough discussion of the bodies. He waited a few paces away as they talked, eyeing the expressions of frozen terror etched onto the faces of the dead with rigor mortis.

 

Harry glanced over and smiled warmly at Greg mid sentence, leaving Greg to fumble a grin and a wave in response. Greg sighed; his lover was truly something else. Looking at him now - his muscles, his posture, his demeanour, his eyes - Greg wondered how he hadn’t noticed the military service that soaked Harry to the bone. He looked exactly like Watson - the same sag to the shoulders, same awkwardness about the limbs.

 

They both tried too hard to be clumsy and graceless. Both were trying to not have such perfect control over every muscle, to not be poised to kill at every moment. Such awareness made a man less human, Greg mused. It took away human error, and with it a measure of humanity.

 

Greg wondered how he could have missed that his lover was a soldier trying desperately to be human again.

 

“Thank you for helping me double check the damage on the victims, Dr Watson,” Harry’s voice pierced Greg’s thoughts. “You were a great help.”

 

“Not a problem, Mr Potter. Anything to help solve this a little faster,” Watson looked sad and worn, but his smile was genuine. Greg stepped forward to place a hand on Harry’s back, giving silent support. Harry said nothing, but leaned into the touch.

 

“I now know what happened. It’s only a matter of who, now,” Greg perked up at that. Did Harry have a lead?”

 

“Anyway,” Harry was talking again. “I want to get to the hospital to see Ivy. It was a pleasure to meet you, Dr Watson. Tell your cousin I said hello, would you?”

 

“Who, Marcus?” Watson frowned. Greg fought back a wince at the devastation in Harry’s eyes as he offered Watson a smile.

 

“No, the other one.”

 

Greg stared. Watson’s frown fell away to show realisation, shock, more realisation, and then outright awe.

 

“So... when you said Harry Potter?”

 

Again with Harry’s name! Greg scowled - there was obviously a hell of a lot he was missing. Harry just nodded.

 

To Greg’s utter surprise, Watson drew himself up and snapped Harry a full military precision salute.

 

“General Potter, it is an honour and a privilege,” Harry had his hands up to wave away the formalities before John could even finish the second word.

 

“Relax, John. We’re all friends here,” Harry’s voice was back to the melodic and peaceful croon he had used with Ivy. Greg felt a pleasant tingle down his spine. John seemed to relax at the tone as well, though he remained at a sort of half-attention.

 

Greg wondered just what Harry had done to warrant such a response.

 

“I must say I’m not surprised you know about my name, despite the Statute,” Harry commented, somewhat pointedly, his grin giving away his obvious amusement. Watson - to Greg’s shock - actually blushed and shuffled nervously like a scolded child.

 

“Yeah, well Uncle Drew was so excited, he’d show us all the photos whenever we came to visit. Could hardly believe it was all real, but then...”

 

The look of saddened empathy on Harry’s face made Greg want to whisk him away and never let him out of his arms again. Harry clasped a hand to Watson’s shoulder in support.

 

“Colin was a wonderful kid, an excellent photographer, a brave warrior, and a dear friend. You should mourn, yes, but be proud of him as well. He fought for his people and his ideals, and I miss him every day.”

 

Watson seemed to swell with pride and a sort of watery happiness. Greg figured having a decorated general speak that way about a relative would be comforting.

 

“He’s the reason I joined the army, you know,” Watson offered. “I wanted him to be proud of me. I wanted to make sure no one else lost family so young.”

 

“You do him proud, Dr Watson. You and Dennis both,” Harry moved back, allowing Watson to stand up and compose himself.

 

“I’ll let Dennis know you asked after him, Mr Potter,” Watson smiled.

 

“Friends, John. Call me Harry,” Harry grinned. Greg stepped forward a little and let Harry lean on him. “And let Dennis know that if he needs anything - anything at all - all he needs to do is ask.”

 

“I will, thank you,” Watson rolled his shoulders, eyes scanning the scene, before he groaned.

 

“I better go stop Sherlock from accidentally committing high treason or something - he looks frustrated,” Watson waved and turned, only to pause.

 

“Mr Potter?”

 

“Friends, John. _Friends_.”

 

“Right, sorry,” Watson shuffled again. “Harry, I - I mean, from the stories and all, I thought you’d be -”

 

“Older?” Harry’s smile was bitter. “War takes things from us all, John. This is just another thing it took from me.”

 

Watson nodded and walked away, leaving Harry leaning into Greg. Greg could feel his younger lover take a few deep breaths, trying to calm down after his talk with Watson. Greg rubbed Harry’s shoulders, offering a gentle smile when Harry glanced up at him. Harry grimaced.

 

“I take it you have questions,” Harry muttered. It wasn’t a question itself, but Greg hummed in agreement anyway.

 

“I have many,” Greg let his eyes trail over his people sorting out body bags and prints and clean-up. “But my questions can wait, It seems we aren’t needed here, so let’s get you to St Bart’s and young Ivy, ok?”

 

“Thank you Greg,” Harry sighed, and Greg decided not to think about why Greg was thanking him, choosing instead to bark orders at Donovan and lead Harry to the car by the hand. They both bundled into Greg’s car and sigh as one. Harry shot Greg a look and they both burst into tired laughter.

 

“All right,” Greg announced, turning on the engine. “Let’s go find us a little girl.”

 

Harry snorted inelegantly, and Greg smiled triumphantly as his lover’s laughter filled the vehicle. Greg drove, and Harry gasped for breath, and the tension between them was gone - at least for the moment.

 

“Please, Greg,” Harry panted. “Never _ever_ say that again.”

 

Greg just offered Harry a shameless smirk, and moved one hand from the steering wheel to link fingers with Harry’s. They fell into a silence that wasn’t comfortable, but promised answers and support and love.

 

Harry had a lot of explaining to do. They both knew it, but it didn’t stop Harry trusting Greg, nor did it stop Greg loving Harry. They would get through it - the case, the secrets, their lives.

 

And they’d do it together.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on AO3, so thanks for reading! :)  
> Hope you guys liked it!


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